5th Trail of Cylus, Arc 718
Outside of Etzos
Neronin made his way along the dark southern road towards the old smith’s home. He was flanked by two Al’Angyryl fighters called Hoth and Mert. Hoth was tall and lanky. He carried a pair of dangerous looking daggers at his belt and wore a battered old set of leather armor. His black hair was pulled back into a loose tail and a slightly off center patch of beard made his face look even longer than it was. Mert was short for Merta. She was a shorter and stouter woman whose preferred weapon was a cudgel. She wore a leather jerkin with circular iron disks sown into it. Both were unwelcome on the venture, but they had insisted Neronin not go out alone. Neronin had begrudgingly allowed the pair to accompany him because they seemed the least opposed to walking with the necromancer.
Apparently the smith had stopped covertly repairing Al’Angyryl weapons and armor. Neronin was going over there to scare him back into order. Because apparently his duties called for bullshit like this. He sighed and let the cold of the Cylus mid morning seep into his body. It pained his lungs slightly but it soothed the necrotic spark within him. That had become, gradually, more important than his own bodily needs. The breaths that filled his lungs nowadays felt more labored.
When he turned a winding rocky corner in the road the old smith’s shop came into view. He was a family man, having raised three daughters and two sons. He made a modestly successful business repairing farming equipment. The only reason Neronin knew this was because Hoth wouldn’t close his mouth for the entire journey. The man had felt the need to explain the whole region to them as though they gave a damn. He had grown up there and knew of the smith by reputation. Neronin felt this whole ordeal was more of a diversion from his more important work, that of finding a way to separate himself from Vuda’s constrictive magic, or at least growing his own.
Neronin saw that the smith shop’s fire was on, smoke clouded grey against the black of the sky. The mage glanced at Hoth and Mert, both hefted their weapons. Neronin knocked on the door, gathering his weapon within him as well. There was a sound from within and Neronin strained to hear it. A muffled crashing and the sound of footsteps. Then nothing.
“Thander? Thander the smith? Are you here?” Neronin called in his usual cold voice. He let his eyes drift back to Hoth and Mert, frowning. No one could have warned the smith of their coming. They hadn’t exactly been scheming of this for trials on end. It had been a spur of the moment type of mission. Hoth drew the daggers from his belt at Neronin’s look and Mert moved over to the door.
The stout women slammed her foot into the door as Neronin moved out of her way. The wooden door burst back with a crash and Mert disappeared inside. Hoth quickly followed her with his daggers slightly raised. Neronin stepped in after them and found the two face to face with a slim, happy faced girl with her hands raised.
“Please, don’t attack! I’m just waiting for the smith!” She said in a shaky voice. She eyed their weapons apprehensively and Neronin saw a pale sheen of sweat beginning to form on her forehead.
“Where’s Thander, girl?” Hoth asked in a harsh voice he hadn’t been using on their journey over to the smith’s place. He had lowered his daggers and Mert was now moving around the smith’s shop, inspecting everything for signs of Thander. Neronin let his eyes drift to the door that lead into the smith’s living area and then back to the girl.
“I-I don’t know.” She responded to Hoth. “My father just sent me.”
Outside of Etzos
Neronin made his way along the dark southern road towards the old smith’s home. He was flanked by two Al’Angyryl fighters called Hoth and Mert. Hoth was tall and lanky. He carried a pair of dangerous looking daggers at his belt and wore a battered old set of leather armor. His black hair was pulled back into a loose tail and a slightly off center patch of beard made his face look even longer than it was. Mert was short for Merta. She was a shorter and stouter woman whose preferred weapon was a cudgel. She wore a leather jerkin with circular iron disks sown into it. Both were unwelcome on the venture, but they had insisted Neronin not go out alone. Neronin had begrudgingly allowed the pair to accompany him because they seemed the least opposed to walking with the necromancer.
Apparently the smith had stopped covertly repairing Al’Angyryl weapons and armor. Neronin was going over there to scare him back into order. Because apparently his duties called for bullshit like this. He sighed and let the cold of the Cylus mid morning seep into his body. It pained his lungs slightly but it soothed the necrotic spark within him. That had become, gradually, more important than his own bodily needs. The breaths that filled his lungs nowadays felt more labored.
When he turned a winding rocky corner in the road the old smith’s shop came into view. He was a family man, having raised three daughters and two sons. He made a modestly successful business repairing farming equipment. The only reason Neronin knew this was because Hoth wouldn’t close his mouth for the entire journey. The man had felt the need to explain the whole region to them as though they gave a damn. He had grown up there and knew of the smith by reputation. Neronin felt this whole ordeal was more of a diversion from his more important work, that of finding a way to separate himself from Vuda’s constrictive magic, or at least growing his own.
Neronin saw that the smith shop’s fire was on, smoke clouded grey against the black of the sky. The mage glanced at Hoth and Mert, both hefted their weapons. Neronin knocked on the door, gathering his weapon within him as well. There was a sound from within and Neronin strained to hear it. A muffled crashing and the sound of footsteps. Then nothing.
“Thander? Thander the smith? Are you here?” Neronin called in his usual cold voice. He let his eyes drift back to Hoth and Mert, frowning. No one could have warned the smith of their coming. They hadn’t exactly been scheming of this for trials on end. It had been a spur of the moment type of mission. Hoth drew the daggers from his belt at Neronin’s look and Mert moved over to the door.
The stout women slammed her foot into the door as Neronin moved out of her way. The wooden door burst back with a crash and Mert disappeared inside. Hoth quickly followed her with his daggers slightly raised. Neronin stepped in after them and found the two face to face with a slim, happy faced girl with her hands raised.
“Please, don’t attack! I’m just waiting for the smith!” She said in a shaky voice. She eyed their weapons apprehensively and Neronin saw a pale sheen of sweat beginning to form on her forehead.
“Where’s Thander, girl?” Hoth asked in a harsh voice he hadn’t been using on their journey over to the smith’s place. He had lowered his daggers and Mert was now moving around the smith’s shop, inspecting everything for signs of Thander. Neronin let his eyes drift to the door that lead into the smith’s living area and then back to the girl.
“I-I don’t know.” She responded to Hoth. “My father just sent me.”
